My Sister Faked Diabetes For Attention. When She Was Exposed, She Destroyed My Life-saving Insulin While I Begged For Help. Am I Wrong For Wanting Her To Rot In Prison?

She grabbed my ankle, dragging me back to the kitchen. The movement made my vision go white. Anger replaced her earlier calm. The interruption had shown her how precarious her plan was. Anyone could show up. Our parents might return early. A neighbor might notice something wrong. She needed to finish this quickly.

She pulled out all the remaining vials, lining them up on the counter. One by one, she named what each meant: this one was for the birthday party she ruined, this one for the family vacation that became about my medical needs, this one for every time mom checked on me at night instead of her.

The disposal hummed to life. She held the first vial over it, watching my face, but I could barely focus on her anymore. The room had taken on a dreamlike quality. Nothing felt real except the burning in my veins and the desperate need for air. She dropped the vial. The grinding sound lasted seconds. Thousands of dollars of medication destroyed. She picked up the next one, then the next. Each destruction accompanied by another grievance, another moment she felt overlooked.

Only two vials remained. My body convulsed, muscles cramping from dehydration and electrolyte imbalance. The pain cut through the fog momentarily. Jade watched with clinical interest. She’d never seen this symptom in her research. Real suffering looked different than performance. She knelt beside me again, holding the last two vials. Her offer had changed. She no longer needed a full confession, just agreement that I’d stay quiet about what she’d done. Let her tell whatever story she wanted, in exchange I’d get enough insulin to survive.

I tried to process her words, but thoughts scattered like smoke. My brain was starving for glucose it couldn’t access. Neural pathways misfired. Reality fractured into disconnected moments: Jade’s face, the vials, the knife, the ticking clock. She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. My head flopped uselessly. She was losing me, and she knew it. The careful timing of her plan was falling apart. She’d underestimated how quickly DKA progressed, how violent the body’s breakdown could be.

A new sound: my phone ringing upstairs. The ringtone I’d assigned to Mom. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. Jade’s face showed real fear now. If our parents were trying to reach us, they might come home early. She made a desperate decision. Drawing up insulin from one vial, she prepared a proper dose. Not the tiny amount from before, but enough to actually help. She’d give me this shot, stabilize me, then force the agreement when I was coherent.

The needle went into my arm, cold insulin entering dying tissue. It would take time to work, maybe 20 minutes before any improvement. Jade sat back to wait, keeping the last vial as insurance. But she’d miscalculated again.

The doorbell rang once more. This time, the voice calling through the door was familiar: Mrs. Bufort asking if everything was okay. She’d seen the delivery driver leave quickly, noticed our parents’ car was gone, worried about us being alone. Jade froze. Mrs. Bufort was persistent, the kind of neighbor who baked cookies and checked on everyone. She wouldn’t leave easily.

Her voice carried through the door, mentioning she’d brought leftover pie from Thanksgiving. I tried to call out but only managed a weak moan. Jade clamped her hand over my mouth, her palms sweaty with panic. Mrs. Bufort knocked again, harder this time. She announced she was getting worried and might call our parents.

That threat mobilized Jade. She couldn’t have Mrs. Bufort calling our parents, alerting them to come home. She stood, smoothing her hair, and walked to the door. Her voice shook slightly as she explained we were fine, just sleeping in. Mrs. Bufort wasn’t convinced. She asked to see me specifically, mentioning she knew about my diabetes and worried when she didn’t see me outside like usual.

Jade made excuses, but Mrs. Bufort’s tone grew more concerned. The conversation stretched on. I could hear the suspicion creeping into Mrs. Bufort’s voice. Jade was talking too fast, over-explaining. The insulin was starting to work, clearing my thoughts marginally. I needed to make noise, any noise. I knocked over the water glass. It shattered on the tile floor.

The sound was unmistakable. Mrs. Bufort’s voice rose, demanding to know what that was. Jade claimed I’d dropped something in the kitchen, that everything was fine. But Mrs. Bufort had raised three children; she knew when something was wrong. She announced she was calling 911 if Jade didn’t open the door fully and let her see me. The threat was real. Mrs. Bufort didn’t bluff.

Jade returned to the kitchen, frantic. Her plan was crumbling. She couldn’t let Mrs. Bufort call for help, but she also couldn’t let her see me like this. She grabbed the last insulin vial, holding it like a bargaining chip. She hissed that I had one chance: tell Mrs. Bufort I was fine, just feeling sick from something I ate. Make her leave. If I said anything else, she’d destroy the last vial and disappear before help arrived. I’d be left to explain everything while dying.

The insulin was working slowly. My thoughts were less scattered, though my body remained weak. I could hear Mrs. Bufort threatening to use the spare key she had for emergencies. Our parents had given it to her years ago. Jade pulled me to my feet, supporting most of my weight. We stumbled to the front door together. She whispered final threats in my ear: one wrong word and the last vial would be gone. She’d claim I’d destroyed my own insulin in a fit of anger.

The door opened partially. Mrs. Bufort’s worried face appeared in the gap. Her eyes immediately found mine, taking in my pale skin, labored breathing, and obvious distress. Her expression hardened with concern. I opened my mouth. The words that came out surprised everyone, including me. I asked Mrs. Bufort if she still had any of that special tea from her garden, the one that helped with nausea. My voice was weak but clear enough.

Mrs. Bufort’s eyes narrowed. She’d known me since I was 5. She knew I hated tea, especially her bitter herbal concoctions. But she played along, saying she’d go get some right away, she’d be back in 5 minutes. Jade started to close the door, relieved. But Mrs. Bufort’s foot blocked it. She looked directly at me and asked if I’d checked my blood sugar recently. A simple question, but loaded with meaning. She knew the signs of diabetic crisis.

Mrs. Bufort coming in with a pie and the detective skills is like watching someone’s grandma turn into Sherlock Holmes. She knows that fake “we’re fine” voice from three blocks away.